Dinner
by Iwantthatcoat
Summary: "Not beyond consideration, but not with me. I knew that part already or I would have bedded you a long time ago, Sherlock. I understand more about this than you give me credit for. It is my Work. Now, perhaps you need to learn what type of food would make your mouth water... and how to prepare it for yourself" Irene is not Sherlock's fantasy, but she can help him discover who is.


"I owe you my life."

"Yes, you do."

"Would you like..."

"_Please_," he somehow manages to keep from rolling his eyes. "The metaphor was already tiresome back in London. I am not hungry."

"Meaning you are on a rigorous diet, you only occasionally nibble, or you gourge yourself at a buffet and then don't eat at all for a very long time? Maybe you only like certain types of food? Or... are you truly ... never... _hungry_."

Sherlock considers the question. It isn't exactly a proposition.

She continues. "I told you. I owe you my life. I want to help you."

Sherlock tilts his head and stares at her without animosity.

"Not beyond consideration, but not with me. I knew that part already or I would have bedded you a long time ago, Sherlock. I understand more about this than you give me credit for. It is my Work. Now..." she says, moving closer, "perhaps you need to learn what type of food would make your mouth water... and how to prepare it for yourself."

"What exactly are you offering?"

"To teach you. You don't like it, having an area you don't know much about. I won't touch you. See. I'll stay right over here..." she pats the bed where she is seated, "and you can be over there," she gestures to the other bed across from it. The hotel room is clean, comfortable, if nondescript. A mere stopping point before her plane departs to Newark in the morning, and his to London.

"Now, hop on that bed... and strip down to just your pants."

He does it without hesitation. Perhaps out of spite. Perhaps as proof that sex truly does not alarm him. He is not ashamed of his body, and he is not vulnerable. He merely strips, and waits. In the back of his mind, he thinks she might be stunned at his absolute indifference, and that, oddly enough, feels slightly empowering.

It is her turn to watch. Her turn to gaze upon him and make deductions. She nods.

"Draw a line with your finger, from the base of your penis to the tip."

He does. Then he stares back at her.

"Yes. It does tell me volumes, that single touch."

Just as in his semi-conscious fantasy with the hiker and the backfiring car, he is intrigued by her deductions.

"I meant it when I said brainy is the new sexy. And that your higher power is yourself. You want to hear what I can read about you. It's your own version of dirty talk." She flashes a predatory smile. "I know this, Sherlock Holmes. I know what you need."

He scoffs.

"No, that's no come-on. It's not me you need. Now, lie back and close your eyes. Just get used to the sound of my voice. You know exactly where I'm sitting." He is visibly relaxed, stretching his long frame on the bed.

"Now, your right hand on the base, where your penis joins your scrotum. Press. Harder. Slide the skin up towards the tip two centimetres, and now back down again."

He responds to her directions, albeit with a cynical air.

"Oh, think about whatever you want to. We can talk if you'd like. About anything you feel like. But continue to do this. You don't have to concentrate. You are a bit of a Bohemian, Sherlock. A sensualist. Your fancy clothes, the swirling coat, the violin, the flat in the heart of London. This can be like that. The trick is getting to that point. I'll teach you. Now, just press down and release the pressure. Good. Should I tell you what's happening? You're impatient. You can't get the effect you want, so you try visual imagery, but that doesn't work for you because you aren't quite sure what to imagine. Yet."

"It should be rather straightforward, no?"

"Not in your case. So, don't imagine anything. Just focus on sensation. It will take longer, at first. And you won't think it is worth the effort. But it will be. Uh-uh-uh...naughty boy. Keep doing it. Press. Release. Press. Slide. Release."

"Dull."

"For now, yes. So, let's pass the time. Shall I pick the topic?"

"Before the phone, when did you first cross paths with my brother?"

"Your brother would be rather shocked if he knew we were discussing him while you were stroking yourself, don't you think?"

"Scandalised. I will endeavor to bring the matter up."

The remark is met with what just might be a genuine smile. "The Diogenes Club has quite a few private rooms. I've been called there several times. Mycroft Holmes is not a client of mine, but some rather powerful friends, and enemies, of his are. I have no interest in disclosing information about my clientele."

Sherlock smirks, but it is unexpectedly interrupted by a sharp intake of breath.

"The pictures you recovered were truly for my protection. I had, as I said, no intention of disclosing any information about my clientele. My role is closer to that of a therapist than you might think. Your brother, however, was not above a bit of blackmail on his rise to power. He wanted information I considered confidential. I wouldn't give it to him. Speaking of privacy, I think you might prefer a bit more of it. Roll onto your stomach, remove your pants and raise yourself onto your knees. Good, now, run your hand all the way up to the tip and over the top, lightly now..., whatever speed you feel like, just keep a light touch." Sherlock shifts position, follows her instructions, breathes deeper. His eyes close. "Aha. Better. Now... don't do it again."

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks toward her, confused.

"You heard me. Don't chase the sensation. Back to the base. Continue with the pattern you had before. Allow yourself an additional two centimeters farther with each stroke. You'll _want_ to run your hand along the tip, feel the wetness gathering there, but... you are not permitted to."

Sherlock's stomach contracts, his muscles tense, as he lets out a small groan.

"Who's going to give this to you, Sherlock? Who is going to watch you writhe and stretch and see how absolutely gorgeous you are like this? To see how you look when you finally can let this wash over you. I'm still sitting right here, you know I haven't moved...won't. Who do you wish I was? Whose voice, telling you to move your hand just a few centimeters higher? To give yourself just a little more. Someone who would move closer, watching you, wanting to touch you right now. Not to take over, just fighting the urge to run a finger along your side." Her voice is quiet, but reverberates in the sparsely furnished room. "A tongue up your neck?"

" Aaa hhhh ...hhhh..."

"You're almost there. Two centimeter increments. Now count. At eight you may touch any place you like, and when you get to ten, you are going to come hard, Sherlock. Out loud, in your head, it doesn't matter. I will stop talking and you will take over. One."

Everything is silent except for a hand on slick skin, breath coming faster, a whispered "ohhh". A shaky voice saying "ssssse...ven, ei..." more breaths "ni...ne, ohgodttt...eeeeeee...hhh...hhh...hhh ten, ten!" Then, softly, with a smile, "ten."

It's been years since Karachi, but The Woman still lingers in his Mindpalace, showing herself at unexpected times. He usually shoos her away, but on occasion he smiles as she restates the rules, and when he is ready, she leaves the hotel (it is a much fancier one now) as another voice begins the count.


End file.
